The Great Broken Bed Debate
by r4ven3
Summary: This is another weekend one shot set after Ruth's return from exile. Other Grid characters feature. Again, the title came to me in the wee hours, and so I had to write something to fit it, (although perhaps "great" is somewhat fanciful and overblown, as is "debate".)


Needing the stimulation of caffeine, Ros Myers heads into the kitchen to make a quick pick-me-up, only to run into Tariq Masood, who is adding three sugars to his milky coffee.

"I know something about Harry," he says, glancing up at Ros, with what she assumes is unbridled admiration.

"We all know something about Harry," she purrs, "so what's your news?"

"Harry's buying a new bed."

Given that Ros had expected Tariq's news to be along the lines of, `Harry eats avocado with his icecream', or `Harry can't type to save his life', Ros is suddenly all ears. "Do tell," she says, inching closer to Tariq while she pours her own coffee.

"I was in his office, and I saw that his monitor was on, so I glanced up - unintentionally, of course -"

"Of course." Ros is now smiling sweetly at Tariq, whom she wishes would just tell her the juicy bits so that she can leave the kitchen to pass on the information to Lucas.

"- and on his monitor was the image of a bed ... a very large bed."

"Maybe he just likes pictures of beds."

"It was on the John Lewis website. A king size bed."

"And Harry stood by while you perused his intended purchase? Did he ask your advice?"

"He was out of the office. I just had to deliver some statistics I'd gathered on Libyan nationals residing in Britain."

Ros is still smiling, in what she hopes is a you-can-trust-me-with-your-children kind of smile, but which is probably closer to her I'm-a-serial-killer-in-training grimace. "And when he returned did you do what all good spies do, and pump him for information?"

A shocked look passes across Tariq's face. "Of course."

"And?"

"He mumbled something about having broken his bed. At least, that's what I think he said."

Interesting. Ros is suddenly very glad that she'd answered the call of her coffee craving. Who knew Tariq to be a purveyor of gossip? She'd believed he only ever communicated in binary code.

"And ..." she begins carefully, "have you shared this Information with anyone else?"

"Only one other."

"Who?" _Or should it be whom_?

"Ruth." _Oh, please God, no_!

"Why, Tariq?"

"Because Ruth and Harry are friends. I thought she'd be interested."

"And ... was she?"

Tariq ponders the question for much too long before answering. "I'd say she was surprised, and maybe a little upset."

"Upset?"

"Yeah, but she seemed upset before I told her, so my news about Harry's broken bed might not have been the reason for her ... distress."

"I can hear my phone," Ros says, quickly leaving the kitchen with her coffee.

Tariq stares at her departing back. "I didn't hear anything," he says aloud.

* * *

"I have information," Ros says quietly, perching her denim-covered derriere on the corner of Lucas's desk.

"It'd better be good," he says, not bothering to look up.

"Maybe not good, as such, but interesting. Harry broke his bed."

That gets his attention. Lucas lifts his eyes, and stares at her, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. "Tell me this isn't true. _Harry_?"

"Harry and perhaps one other person. Of course, I know not who."

Lucas looks around the Grid, to see it almost empty, before giving Ros his full attention. "You're talking about Harry with Ruth ... aren't you?"

"I ... might be. Has Harry looked at anyone else these past five years?"

"I haven't been here that long, and I don't keep tabs on Harry. He's an overweight, middle-aged man with an attitude. Need I say more?"

Ros turns to gaze towards Harry's office, where the man in question is poring over some paperwork. He certainly looks troubled, but .. when doesn't he? "Maybe I should pump him for information," she muses.

"Maybe you shouldn't."

"Is that an order?" she asks, turning back to Lucas.

"No. It's a suggestion ... as a friend, rather than your section chief."

Trust Lucas to remind her of rank. Ros looks around the Grid. Apart from her and Harry and Lucas, there is only Tariq and his new assistant, Rashid, a young technical wizard cut from the same cloth as Tariq - quick-thinking, technically minded, and nept with people.

"Right you are," she says, sliding off Lucas's desk, and making a beeline for the office of the section head.

* * *

"Rosalind?" Harry lifts his head as she enters his office, his expression grim. Ros hadn't known bed-buying to be so distressing.

Without being asked, Ros sits on the chair across the desk from Harry, crossing one long leg over the other. "I've been talking to Tariq." All Harry does is grunt, so she dives in head first. "He tells me you're buying a bed."

Harry doesn't miss a beat. "I suppose he also shared with you that I broke my own bed."

"He did."

"And you thought you'd come in here, and I'd tell you the whole sorry story."

Ros smiles her mouth-only smile. "I thought it worth a try," she says.

"There's nothing to tell. You already know the whole story."

"Which is?"

Harry sighs, which is not a good sign. "My bed broke - while I was rearranging the furniture in my bedroom - and so now I need a new one."

"That's some rough ... rearranging you were doing."

"As I was pushing the bed towards another wall, one of the legs broke off."

"Can't you just ... stick it back on with superglue, or something?" Ros waves one hand around airily, like superglue is something everyone carries with them in case of emergency.

"It's an old bed. I've had it since I first left my marriage. It's time I bought a new one." When Ros nods, Harry continues. "Satisfied?"

"I am, but have you spoken to Ruth in the past half hour or so?" Ros lifts one eyebrow, hoping she won't be forced to explain what she means. "It's just that Tariq shared with her the story of your broken bed."

Harry sits back and breathes out heavily. "I only saw her leaving the Grid," he says, "and she ... appeared .." As Ruth had hurried past his office to the doorway to the Grid, she had appeared upset, even distressed, and he suspects she'd been crying. Again he lifts his eyes to Ros. "I think I might ..."

"Go after her?"

Harry nods, before he stands to put on his coat. It is autumn, and the air outside has a bite in it. Ros watches as he leaves the Grid. She's not buying his story of moving furniture around his bedroom. In her experience men never voluntarily move furniture unless they are being paid to do so. She prefers to believe that after an on and off romance lasting years, Harry had at last convinced Ruth to go to bed with him, and while they were mid romp, their combined G forces had demolished the bed. True or not, her version makes a much better story.

Ros unwinds herself from the chair, and makes a beeline for Lucas's desk, but he's no longer there, so with a sigh, she returns to her own desk.

* * *

Harry is almost certain where an unhappy Ruth might go to regain her equilibrium. He strides along the Thames embankment, searching for her amid the Friday afternoon crowds. He can't say what it is still draws him to her, but the drive is still one which dominates his days, as well as his nights. Despite working well together once more, their close personal relationship has not been rekindled. In its place is a wariness, a carefulness which has prevented them taking risks with one another. He believes that if one of them doesn't act soon, the sands of time will have closed over any chance they may have of ever being more than colleagues.

He finds her sitting alone on one of the farthest benches from the bridge. She is dressed in a dark coat, her eyes focused across the water, as if she can see through the buildings and even beyond the city which surrounds them. Harry stands for a moment, indulging in watching her unseen. Bundled inside the coat she seems so small, and he has to fight an urge to rush to her side to protect her.

He slowly approaches, and only as he enters her field of vision does he speak. "May I?" he asks quietly, indicating the bench beside her.

Ruth glances up at him and nods. "I'd been expecting you," she says.

"Am I that predictable?"

Ruth offers him a weak smile. Her posture conveys tension, her hands in her lap never quite still. "I needed ... thinking time," she says, turning back to contemplate the river.

They sit beside one another for some time. Harry is contemplating where to begin, having little idea of what is going through Ruth's mind.

"Ros told me that Tariq told you that I was looking to buy a new bed because mine broke," he begins, and even to his ears, that sentence sounds ridiculous.

Ruth nods, but doesn't offer eye contact. The air is still and cold, and Harry has pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat to keep them warm. He glances again at Ruth's hands, to see they are turning blue. Perhaps she doesn't feel the cold. He resists a strong desire to reach out and take her hands between both of his.

"That's not the reason I'm out here, Harry. I didn't read anything into the story of the broken bed."

"It really did break. It's an old bed, and I was alone at the time."

Ruth turns towards him, and although her eyes still appear troubled, her face is relaxed in a smile. "I know," she says quietly.

He, on the other hand, frowns. "You do? How?" _Clairvoyance? X-ray vision?_

She reaches out with one reddened hand, placing it gently on his arm. "I know you, Harry. I know you'd have been alone when your bed broke."

"I was moving the bedroom furniture around, and one leg on the bed broke off."

She nods, her hand still on his arm. No mention of mending the bed, or of superglue. He should have known she'd understand. So why is she upset?

"What is it, Ruth?" he says after she has removed her hand from his forearm. "What's wrong?"

Turning her eyes back to the river, she begins to talk. "It's not the story of your broken bed which has upset me. In the memos and notes from my Libyan contact was a memo which perhaps was included by mistake ... or not. It was a message sent from an agent at Mi6 to an agent in the Mukhabarat el-Jamahiriya, stationed in Tripoli." Harry waits as Ruth gathers her thoughts. So far, nothing she has said is at all unusual. Communication between British Intelligence and Libyan Intelligence is not out of order.

"Whichever way I look at it," Ruth continues, "and remember that Arabic is one of my key languages, the message is clear." Ruth turns her body on the bench so that she faces him. "The gist of the message appears to be that the CIA have instructed two Mi6 agents to hire an assassin from within our British-Libyan population. While the assassin was not named, his code name is Freedom Fighter." Harry makes a face. The name is hardly original, but perhaps that had been done on purpose. He holds Ruth's beautiful eyes, troubled as they are, already knowing what she is about to say. "The man's remit is to `Eliminate the Colonel.'"

"Gaddafi."

"You knew about this?"

"The idea has been bandied about at JIC meetings for the past two years. The CIA have been putting pressure on our government, and especially Six. I voted against it, but the majority have supported it." He waits before taking another breath. "And I ... shouldn't have told you that."

Harry watches closely as Ruth turns from him, again staring across the river, while her hands wind around in her lap.

"It won't be happening any time soon, Ruth. He'll need specific training, and the moment will be carefully chosen. And should Gaddafi play ball, then it may never happen."

Again she turns towards him. "But can't you stop this? It's .. state sanctioned murder."

"I'm just a section head in domestic intelligence. My opinion on the matter is irrelevant."

"So ... why do we bother, Harry?"

He notices tears again welling in her eyes. Perhaps she is just too brilliant, and too sensitive for the job. Perhaps he has become too hardened, able to brush off the prospect of a nation's leader being killed by the intelligence services of two of the world's most powerful nations. Actions such as this have become _de rigueur_ ... obligatory, and part of what is expected of intelligence services. "I ask myself that same thing at least once a day," he says, reaching out to grasp one of her hands in his, holding it tightly, so that she can't pull away. Receiving no resistance from her, Harry stuffs both their hands into his coat pocket, and it is this action which draws a shocked glance from Ruth. "Your hands are freezing, Ruth."

"So now I'll have one warm hand and one freezing hand," she says curtly, but Harry notes the soft curve of her lips as she smiles. He's prepared to tell himself that she's pleased her hand is engulfed in his inside his coat pocket.

"You know as well as I do that this is not the first time this kind of thing has happened," Harry adds. "Iran, Chile, Guatemala. It's hardly news."

"But why do we have to get involved?"

"That's what we do. I don't like much of what we have to do, but times are changing rather rapidly, and we either go along with it, or we .."

"We get out," Ruth finishes for him, squeezing the hand which has hers trapped in his coat pocket.

Harry sighs heavily. He seems to have been doing a lot of that lately, and especially since Ruth's return from exile. While she'd been gone he'd needed the distraction of work. Now ... now he needs something else, although he's not sure she's ready for the same thing, but he is a patient man.

He is relieved when there is no more talk of assassins in training. The subject makes him feel old and tired and past it.

"So," she says at last, turning to him, "do you need any help choosing a bed?"

Harry is stunned. While bed buying is not something he's ever had to do, he'd expected to have to do it alone. "Are you offering?" he asks quietly.

"We could look through some shops after work," she says, holding his eyes. Bed shopping with Ruth? The very idea is sending Harry's mind to places he only dares visit late at night, after a few whiskies. He feels his heart beating faster, and he hopes Ruth can't detect that his anxiety levels are rising, along with his blood pressure. "But if you'd rather go shopping on your own.." she adds, looking away.

"No," he says quickly, and rather too emphatically. "I need all the help I can get," and seeing her frowning, "and I could do with your help. I'd really like your help, Ruth. Maybe after we look at beds, we can grab a bite to eat." Ruth face has relaxed, but then her raised eyebrows have him examining his words. "I'm sorry if that sounded practised. I've had no practice at this kind of thing for ..."

"How long?"

"Since I begged you to have dinner with me a second time, and you turned me down."

Harry watches Ruth's face while she colours, and then drops her eyes. He is sure he's already blown it with her, and so he slumps against the bench. Then he feels her hand squeeze his from inside his coat pocket.

"Were we able to go back to that time, my answer would be different," she says quietly. "Back then, I was ... afraid of hurting your career, while now ..."

"I barely have a career worth saving."

"I'm sure that's not true," she says. "While I've been sitting here, wondering why it is I'm doing a job which requires so much of so few, I've also been thinking about you ... about us." Harry can barely breathe, but he remains silent. He'd rather say nothing than say the wrong thing. "I've decided that were you to ... approach me again, I'd not push you away." Ruth takes her eyes from him, and once again gazes across the river. "If I've learned nothing else from George's death it's been that life is too short to push away the very people I need ... the people I care about."

Again, Harry feels the squeeze of her hand, and this time he squeezes back. "Will you have dinner with me, Ruth, after we go bed-shopping?" Ruth nods, and this time her smile is natural, and relaxed, and so reminiscent of Ruth pre-exile that Harry feels a sudden surge of foolish hope. He watches her closely for signs that she doesn't mean what she says, and seeing no such signs, he dives right in ... feet first. "Ruth," he says, his voice quiet, "your lips .. they're almost blue with cold." Harry waits for what seems like an interminably long time, but then, waiting for Ruth is something at which he excels.

Ruth touches her lips lightly with the fingers of her free hand. "You're right. They are cold. Do you ... could you ...?"

He can, and he does. Harry leans forward, placing his lips lightly on hers before pulling away. Ruth shakes her head. "That didn't quite do the trick, Harry."

Waiting no longer than the length of a heartbeat, he again leans in, this time sliding his free hand around her waist. The kiss is soft, and warm, and incredibly tender. Feeling the fingers of her free hand winding through the hair at the back of his head, Harry continues the kiss until he considers that they have reached the limits of propriety for kissing in a public place. Harry pulls away, unable to hold back his smile. Better still, Ruth returns his smile.

"As much as I really don't want to," he says, slowly placing distance between them, "we should be returning to work." When Ruth nods, glancing down at his lips, and then back to his eyes, Harry removes their hands from his pocket. "I give you back your hand," he says lightly, "now warm and toasty, hopefully to your liking."

"Thank you, kind sir."

* * *

Less than thirty yards away, a young man with dark hair and dark eyes has been munching on a chicken pie, while enjoying some fresh air before returning to his job in Thames House. Seeing the familiar couple on the bench, he had been about to bound over to them to say hello, but then they had kissed, and that had suddenly changed everything.

So it _is_ true, and Ros was right.

In that moment he decides that the kiss must remain a private thing between his section head and analyst. He will not share with anyone what he saw, and he will no longer take part in gossiping about others. His parents had brought him up to respect others, and so he will do that, beginning with Harry and Ruth. He watches them as they walk away from him, her hand hooked through his arm. He still doesn't know how Harry broke his bed, but nor does it matter. In the end, the bed is still broken, and if a broken bed has brought Ruth and Harry together, then maybe it was worth it. Beds can be replaced, but people can't.

Tariq looks forward to the day when the bed in his flat breaks, and miraculously leads to him meeting the love of his life. If Harry Pearce can do it, then so can he. That thought has him humming softly to himself as he follows (at a respectful distance, of course) the older couple back to Thames House.


End file.
